


he'd probably rather be shot out of an airlock

by henryclerval



Series: birthday shite 4 the GF [3]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types
Genre: Frottage, Hand Jobs, M/M, Pre-Relationship, Stream of Consciousness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-26
Updated: 2016-01-26
Packaged: 2018-05-16 08:56:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,647
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5822410
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/henryclerval/pseuds/henryclerval
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The heat in Luke’s cheeks could probably melt away the entire snow on Hoth.</p>
            </blockquote>





	he'd probably rather be shot out of an airlock

He tries not to embarrass himself too thoroughly. This is an embarrassing situation! He ought to have some tact, some sort of control over how he acts just to make sure that he doesn’t become embarrassing with it. Or humiliated. Han doesn’t seem like the type to really make fun of people after the fact, but he seems the type to kiss and tell. And oh, he really doesn’t want to have bad rumors spread about him—not even bad! Just the, the— _oh it must have been the stress of the mission_ or _we were all pretty tired_ or _he was really nice though_. 

No. He might be another notch but it won’t be one that’s skimmed over. He wants to be the well-worn one, the one thought about all the time, he wants to leave such a deep, long-lasting impression that he doesn’t even know where a lot of these feelings are coming from! He wants to tell Han that he wants to be more than a one-off, he wants to just kiss him silly at any given chance; he wants to tell Han how he’s had dreams about them in some imaginary future and he wants to protect him with the whole of his being. 

But instead he manages to shut himself up for the first time in a long, long time, and kisses the feelings away. 

The heat in Luke’s cheeks could probably melt away the entire snow on Hoth. Han has been teasing him out of his snow gear for millennia—a soft kiss here, skimming his fingertips there, being a complete ass about it no matter the turn. Luke just wants to absorb him, wrap his legs and let Han just go to town on his whole body. How many times has he thought about getting just fucking destroyed? A truly shameful amount, that’s what. An amount of times where other pilots are starting to raise eyebrows at how many tissues he goes through, and even R2 is getting wily with his jabs. 

He can’t help it, oh he’d love to, but he can’t—he could stare for hours while Han works on the Falcon, his hands and arms flexing with the muscles hidden under layers that, when Luke squints hard enough, he can see. He can categorize. He can picture perfectly in his mind hours later when he’s got some peace and quiet right before the communal lights out and the bunks are to himself, and he can duck his head into his pillow and think about those hands; those hands on his hips, on his legs, on his sides, on his dick, shoving his head into the pillow instead of just him doing it himself. 

Why is he fantasizing? It’s happening now. Han’s finally underneath the woolen undershirt and Luke yelps at how cold Han’s hands are. How real. It’s scary how heavy they are, how rough they are, how absolutely fucking ready he is for them. 

He’s embarrassing about it. His whole body’s flushed, his skin’s prickling, he’s gnawing so hard on his lip that it’s about to burst. 

“They can’t,” Han mumbles, and Luke’s heart stops right in his chest. Han tries again, mouthing up the collar of Luke’s thermal, trying to find the words woven into the fabric. “We can’t really go the whole way,” sounds a lot better, even if Luke’s heart is sputtering and he’s gotta close his eyes if he’s going to keep living. 

“It’s cold,” Luke breathes out—he’s sure Han’s hands are leaving frozen little red lines where they pet and massage. 

“It’s freezing,” he’s corrected between kisses. The only consolation is that Han keeps stopping to find his words. “And I’m not exactly prepared.” 

Luke’s heart leaps from dead on the ground to burning in his throat—his eyes bulging, probably, from the way his skull suddenly aches. 

But Han doesn’t meet his gaze, which is fine, it’s embarrassing. He keeps his head down for a little while longer, warming his hands on the soft plane of Luke’s stomach, up to the hard bumps of his ribs, smoothing down to the flat curve of Luke’s ass. Which gets a rise out of Luke’s throat. Which gets a rise out of Han. 

And then they’re looking at each other, big and wide and Luke thinks that he’s about to let loose all kinds of feelings that he’s not ready to admit to himself. Han is just so handsome, and good even if he doesn’t know it, and gentle with him and—

And kissing him. Han’s kissing him slow and long and it thankfully, thankfully knocks the rest of the thoughts far from Luke’s stupid little brain. How does Han know how to kiss like that? How does he know just how to put his hands on Luke’s body to get the perfect rise out of him? To make him melt into the mattress and just let Han take over, be the expert he clearly is. 

It fritzes out Luke’s peabrain, and he needs to concentrate in order to keep up at all. Putting his hands in the right places, strategically pulling Han out of vest, unbuttoning his shirt, taking a minute to really, really live in the moment that Han squeaks and swats him for putting cold hands on his hips. 

The laugh that bubbles out of them makes his whole body burst. Luke’s cheeks tingle. His mouth aches from smiling. Han gives him kisses like little gifts, soft and sweet and helping Luke’s hands undo belts and elastics and shove their pants down just enough to get what they want. 

“Oh,” Luke gasps. “ _Oh_ ,” the feeling of Han’s hand around his dick is, honestly, a lot different than what he anticipated; doubly so when he’s got Han’s cock up against it too. 

Mortifying—that’s the word, mortifying. Mortifying how fast he’s gonna spend himself. Mortifying how close he is already, with only kissing and a little rubbing on top of clothes to credit. 

He squeezes his eyes closed and tries to get a grip on the world, counting back from one hundred or thinking about repairs that C3PO might need—but Han’s moving against him, making shallow little grunts with each tiny movement, and Luke can’t focus. He feels like he’s been waiting for this his entire life. Maybe he’ll die here, his dick in Han’s hand and his own throat suffocating him. 

It’d be fine, actually. This is probably the highest point of his life. He can’t honestly imagine it getting any better than this. 

“Oh,” Luke starts again, digging his heels into the mattress as he bucks against Han. 

“That all you can say, kid?” It’d be more of a jab if Han weren’t so breathless, rosy pink in the face when he leans up to kiss. It’d probably also be more of a jab if Luke didn’t agree immediately—nodding and messing up the kiss, throwing off the timing, making it even harder to squeeze all of his muscles into not coming immediately. “Could be worse,” Han puffs, spreading the messy kisses from Luke’s lips to his cheek. 

“How?” Luke’s lucky it’s mostly one long sound, otherwise he wouldn’t manage even that. 

“At least I know you like me for my personality too.” 

It’s so ridiculous. It’s so hilarious, and the laugh that pops out of Luke’s mouth surprises both of them. Han’s rhythm falters again, and it all collapses form there—laughter turned gasp, Luke’s thighs squeezing into Han’s sides as his body jerks, Han’s hand flexing too tight around their cocks, and—

Luke comes with no sound at all, his body rigid and face scrunched up. 

Mortifying. 

“Shit,” Han grunts out, and it brings Luke back just enough to unscrew his face and pry an eye open—and, honest, he’ll be thanking himself that he did for the rest of his life. Han’s propped himself up on his elbow, back hunched and head down and off to the side—and he can see, down between them, Han’s hand working himself jerkily. That’s—that’s a lot, and if Luke hadn’t spent himself moments before he’d probably come again from the way that his whole body reactively throbs.

He swears, he can hear the whole galaxy change when Han comes all over his stomach. 

He wishes he had a camera. He wishes he had a recorder. He wishes he had something, something, something to capture the blotchy red on Han’s face and neck, running down his chest. Luke wishes he had watched longer, focused a bit better, hadn’t made such a fool of himself. 

He wishes he had a tissue or something to clean off his midsection, instead of Han just wiping it up with his hand and smearing it against the sheets. His sheets. To his bed. Han doesn’t have to live with that when it gets hard and disgusting. 

“Uh,” Luke’s never been great with words. Han’s already zipping and buckling up, even so nice as to put Luke back together too. “I, uh,” he’s trying, he really, really is, even when Han kisses him quick and light. “Thanks?” That doesn’t sound right.

Definitely isn’t right, with the scrunch of Han’s brows before he chuckles and touches Luke’s cheek too briefly. “No, kid, thank _you_ ,” it’d probably be seductive or whatever Han was trying for if he didn’t look like he just tried to run a marathon. It’s comforting, a little. 

“Anytime,” and that’s a lot worse. Luke could deal with the fake bedroom eyes, could deal with the smugness that Han gets without even doing anything. 

But suggesting more? A continuation? That Han wants to come back and do it again? 

Embarrassing. He’s embarrassing himself, he’s embarrassing Han—embarrassing the whole rebel cause with how hot his face gets and the smallest, faintest squeak bounces from his lips and follows Han out the door.


End file.
